The Twin-Tailed Comet
by alfredtg
Summary: Thirsting Gods laugh as the World That Was is thrown into destruction, the souls reaped by their slaves streak across the cosmos. From Mundus Aedra and Daedra alike look on in wonder, as what power could possibly claim so many souls. The Aedra hatch a plot in fear of these beings, while Daedra scheme in their lairs. Mortals struggle to survive against Gods and Dragons alike.
1. Chapter 1

**Deep within the Warp…**

A whirling torrent of ideas, nightmares and emotions made manifest swirled like a hurricane of concepts. Here were the true wars of the Dark Powers fought, where ideas and thoughts clashed with the force of titans. Four great Leviathans pitted themselves against each other, vying for dominance or destruction of all others. Here were plans hatched, plagues concocted, battle-plans drawn out and glorious orgies planned. Here also was where the vast hordes of the Gods threw themselves against each other, a never ending crucible of violence and hatred. They loved it. They hated it. They would not exist without it.

Amidst the gargantuan struggles of gods were the Changer's little plots resolved. Small schemes that added up to apocalyptic results. A momentary diversion of the tiniest fraction of the creature's power forced a ship adrift in the warp here, rose a cultist to power among his peers there, and brought to ruination the rivals of a useful pawn there. The ripples of these relative sleights of hand were felt across time, space and beyond.

The hand of Tzeentch reached everywhere and everywhen, and moved its pawns to where it desired they be. One such pawn unwittingly became the target of the unknowable entity's malign gaze.

**In the town of Kelburg within the Reikland:**

Witch Hunter Joseph Stantur fell to one knee, his faith-driven vitality spent on the latest offensive by the mad forces of darkness. They had been lucky thus far, Stantur thought as he gasped for breath. They had encountered only lesser evils, strange rat-like beastmen in uncounted hordes as well as norse-men in their hundreds, no fearsome chaos warriors or other towering slaves to the Dark Gods. Lucky were they too, to have been given this chance to rest. He and the once hundreds, now dozens of faithful men that stood with him had fought for days on end to repel the forces of darkness. Even now he imaged that their teeming hordes rallied for another attack. His hatred flared, and he found the strength to pick himself up. He must rally the men, and prepare for the inevitable renewed offensive.

He turned, and saw a sorry state. Even more had fallen than in the last wave. They were down to a mere 60 soldiers by his estimation. The men still standing, many fighting wounded were not simply tired, but drained in body, mind and soul. Their homes burned, their families were butchered around them. In the silence between battles they could hear the screams in the town around them. Men and women burned alive, butchered in the streets and far worse. The smell of death, charred flesh and bile was prevalent above everything else. And the enemy attacked. And attacked. And attacked. Their fate was set, all here knew it. All Stantur could do now, was ensure their end was one Sigmar himself could be proud of.

"Stand, all of you." Some men looked to him, disbelieving. Others simply stared, as though completely unaware of the impending apocalypse.

Stantur was losing patience. "Men of the Empire! Are you so WEAK that you cannot even stand amidst this momentary peace?! By Sigmar, STAND!" That got their attention.

Many rose slowly. Some even slower than that. Some fell and did not move. Those that could were standing. Even knee-deep in their own doom, Reiklanders wouldn't be called weaklings.

"The End Times have come, I am not so blinded by the light of faith as to deny that now. The Reikland burns around us, yet so long as we stand, this piece of our home endures. For as long as men of the empire hold this place, there is yet somewhere vile gods are denied their desires. Stand, all you who may! For those who stand now, stand in the face of the Dark Gods themselves! Stand, for all those who stand now yet preserve out Empire! Stand, IN THE NAME OF SIGMAR WHO WE IN DEFIANCE YET SERVE!"

The state troops among them hollered and yelled. Some had only the energy yet to raise their weapons in silent acknowledgement. All those who yet lived stood, and prepared to stand their ground so long as they drew breath.

Fortuitous then, that they all could stand as the barred doors of the keep crashed inward. Yet the sturdy wood held. The state troops had little time, and rushed into a formation. What pikes, spears and halberds they had held the front, while stacked debris funneled the enemy straight into their loving steel. The majority of men held battered shields and blood-slicked swords, standing behind the polemen in front. They were to relieve those men if possible, take the pressure off if they could. A handful of handgunners and crossbowmen stood in reserve, their meagre ammunition stocks close at hand. Stantur stood in the front alongside the spearmen. Let no one say I cowered and hid behind better men, he thought.

Boom, the doors crash again. The wood strains and the hinges begin to squeal as if in pain.

"None can find us wanting, we have all proven ourselves worthy of Sigmar's side a hundred times! All who stand with me now are heroes of the Empire!"

The gates crash inward, two trolls stumble in, falling flat on their faces. Axe in one hand, torch in the other, Stantur hacks and burns at the flesh of the monsters. Enraged, they both try to rise, only to be met with responding cracks as handgunners take their shots, and take the monsters' eyes. The beasts are left reeling, but the northmen behind them do not hesitate. The hour to earn their master's favor draws short.

With a roar to drown out the pained and angry howlings of the two trolls, the savage servants of darkness surge forward. Spears meet flesh, axes meet torsos and the swordsmen come forward. With a strength of grim certainty, the state troops unflinchingly cut down Norscan after Norscan, the paltry gifts of their gods meaning little before the determination of dead men. A dwarf could look among those Empire men and if not for their height, would see his own kinsmen.

The line was holding despite the northmen's numerical advantage, though that would quickly shift as the trolls rose fully, their eyes having regenerated. They still bore the pain of Stantur's torch, and the fury to repay that pain. Spotting the lanky black-clad hunter, both lumbered forward, heedlessly crushing several of their "allies" in the process. As they waded up to the Reiklander line, pikes like so many quills jutted from behind shields to embed themselves in troll-hide, while bolts dug into the softer necks of the dumb brutes. It was during this torment that Stantur came forth again, bearing fire like his faith to burn away the vile creatures. Healing wounds were burned open and the trolls began to sag under the weight of their injuries. The handgunners fired again, all at once upon the leftmost beast's head, splitting it open and finally killing the enduring monster. The other troll had wanted to swing at the fire-bearing man-flesh, but upon the death of its fellow, turned and fled like the stupid cowardly beast that it was. The panicked retreat and backwards fall of the two trolls respectively killed a handful more Norscans, and the savage tide faltered before the death-throes of these mere southlanders. As some thought to run, a horrible screeching arose from behind the Norscans. The troll that fled burned under the tender mercies of an armored giant wielding a staff and flaming sword.

"**SLAUGHTER ALL, BUT LEAVE THE HUNTER TO ME!"**

The screams of the troll and arrival of a true warrior of the gods rallied the flagging Norscans and they surged again against the paltry shieldwall. This time, weight of number overpowered grit and spite, and the line collapsed. Screams rang out as men were killed where they stood, but none died without fighting. For many, this end was a rest that life had not afforded them.

Stantur had been backed against the far wall of the inner courtyard, with only cold stone at his back. All other men had been killed, and now the Norscans toyed with him as a cat toys with a mouse before killing it. A few were careless, allowing his tired axe-strikes to pierce their flesh in arrogance. Those that fell so foolishly only seemed to amuse their fellows, who laughed as the idiots fells to the half-living hunter before them.

"**STAND **_**ASIDE**_" a warped voice suddenly boomed. The Norscans jumped to obey, parting to reveal the warrior that had appeared before. Eyes that glowed with evil power could be seen through the helm of the monstrous man-like figure before him, studying the hunter with eyes like a predator that had cornered its prey. Stantur glared back at the armored figure, and though the soul was willing, his flesh failed him. Cursing the frailty of his body, exhaustion caught up to the hunter and he collapsed, still alive.

**Later, in an unknown location…**

Consciousness returned to Stantur along with the vague repetition of sound around him. As his wits returned fully, he realized he was bound to a post in the middle of what he recognized as a blasphemous ritual. Though he had seen many such rituals in his time, he could not divine the purpose of this one. Its elements were largely unfamiliar to him. Around him fur-clad shamans chanted evenly and the scent of burned man-flesh found his nose. He faded briefly back into unconsciousness before coming to, this time with the armored heretic before him.

"**I do not know what power my master could siphon from one so weak, so late in the eve of this world's death... Yet it is not my place to question, for all are pawns of the Changer.**"

Stantur found his jaw too heavy to speak. Instead he simply felt shame. All his talk of standing for Sigmar, and yet only he was yet alive. Worse, he had shown weakness before the enemy and collapsed! Whatever evil fate this madman had planned, surely he deserved it for his failure to die proud and defiantly as the rest had. For them he could feel pride, for surely they all stood by the side of Sigmar in the afterlife. If he could inspire them to earn such a vaunted honor, perhaps he could still die well, even at the hands of this butcher.

"**Even now you revel in your petty defiance. How pathetic. Sleep now, and know that your soul serves Tzeentch now, even in death you will not escape him.**"

Again Stantur fell out of consciousness as if by command, and all was dark.

**Somewhere beyond mortal eyes**

_Behold, another soul sent adrift!_

Ethereal beings held concourse, observing the shift in the body of the cosmos.

_What luminous beings, what bright fires are flung so far afield. What could possibly cause such tumult? _

The Dragon held his aged eyes closed, paused in contemplative calm. Its vigorous fever has waned in the centuries following its direct action in the smiting of Dagon. Above them all, the stars stir strangely, as they never had before. Below, time bends and breaks, all in accordance with the ineffable will of the Elder Scrolls, those which may defy Aedra and Deadra alike. It was all giving it a conniption, far too much hustle and bustle for one as old and tired as it. The others beheld the stars like children, wonderfully and fearfully. Many had not committed as much of their power as he in a great deal of time, however one held back. The youngest of them always did hold himself in reserve, a strangely old soul, for one so young.

_They oogle in awe of these spinning stars, Dragon. But what say you? I see no mild amusement from you, none of the smug satisfaction I have come to expect. Perhaps this change of events, these streaking souls like comets in the sky, is no light show, but rather an ill omen. As the eldest, surely you have seen it's like?_

_No, God of Men, I have not. So many souls cast into the beyond at once, this has no precedence. I can only guess that somewhere, a great and terrible tragedy is taking place. What horrible and powerful creatures could possibly reap so many mortals at once. No daedra, even at the zenith of its power could possibly match such slaughter. Perhaps we, without the limitations of the universe, and without the reservations of moral creatures could sow such destruction. _

_You speak as if afraid, Dragon. I never could have thought you might fear anything, but yes, such volume can only mean that beings powerful beyond reckoning are moving in places outside of our vision. Only the ruins they carve are visible to we Aedra. So what do you intend to do?_

_I? _The dragon shook its snout, the most movement its representation had mustered since they had gathered. _No young one, I have not the strength now. I suspect that you, on the eve of the Wyrm's return, are also quite short on power with which to respond._

The shape of a man appeared to take little humor in the Dragon's jibe, crossing his arms and refusing to acknowledge the insult.

Chortling huffs came from the lipless maw of the Dragon. _So proud, the God of Man! I see where those Nords get it from. However, the time for levity I fear has passed. Gather the others, though they have been long content to spread their power thin, granting blessings to many, only with our combined might can we now act._

_So you do have a plan?_

_Oh yes. You'll soon learn that Sheogorath has no monopoly on madness, as this plan may greatly endanger us, as well as those we seek to protect._

The Aedra were brought from their reverie, and gathered in a half-circle with the Dragon as the keystone. Each took up their position, as so they fit perfectly with each other in the natural world. Such harmony be called upon, as it would allow for feats of power far beyond any single Aedra's ability. The Dragon raised its head from where it had lounged, looking to each of its kin before addressing them all together.

_There are none so foolish among us that they cannot guess the potential threat that looms over all. Whatever wrought such horror surely shall rear itself upon us in time. I move that we come together, call upon the spark of creation that lay within each of us and tear one of the forsaken souls above down here. Surely the brightest among them can help our mortal kin prepare for what is to come._

Though no clamor arose, the discontent of the beings around him was clear in how they looked to each other. A light that shone with the promise of magic spoke;

_If I understand you correctly elder one, you mean to openly rob the creatures capable of the wanton killing we see above us of the brightest, most powerful wills we can find? _

_Indeed Law, such is my purpose._

The Light paused for a moment, as surprised as a singularity of light could present itself to be.

_Surely I need not illustrate further the risk that may pose? That whatever was capable of such ruin would surely draw it's gaze to us instantly?_

_Sharp as ever Law, yet let your thoughts linger longer. If these things can do as such to the unfortunate souls we see on high, what is to keep them from doing so to our people? To us?_

_Surely you cannot prove that they-_

_Indeed, I cannot. However it has ever been our way to prepare, to gather power and release it at the right times. So that our people, and we ourselves, may be preserved. _

The light dimmed at that, content to think on the words of its elder sibling. The others also quieted, for they had no more cunning plan than the Dragon had presented. However, where more ethereal beings were silent, lest they seem the fool, one more manish shape spoke up:

_Surely you have spoken truly, for only one "Blessed" with the Mad God's touch would suggest such an action at this juncture! The World-Eater comes, and in his wake Nirn shall tremble! How can we suggest bringing further harm, from such powerful and malicious creatures, when even now the fruits of _your _mistakes returns for its vengeance?_

Many figures bristled and brightened at the charge levied against them collectively, ready to Shout down their youngest member. A Calm Breeze stayed their outrage, and the God of Man turned his defiant gaze upon it.

_Still yourself, youngest one. I have seen the Dragon's will, and it strives to endure both calamities_.

_I understand what It intends to do, but should it be done? Is this possibility for preparation worth the risk?_

The Dragon looked to the Man among them and began to reveal the rest of his plan. Though the Man had his doubts, there was little else they could do to combat the evils beyond.

**The Skies Above Nirn**

Many peoples of all races looked to the sky in awe as multitudinous streaks of light tore across the heavens above. Many saw them as signs from their various gods, omens of peace, war and everything in between. Few saw that one light strayed from the rest, curving downward towards the mortal plane below. Bent by powers divine, this lone light bent and strayed down towards a land awash with white snow, towering mountains, and sweeping plains.

In a parody of the heavenly twin-tailed comet, a single soul has veered, saved though it ignorant of its once impending doom. The light of this soul swings low over the northern province, curving with the land as races ever northward. Finally a patch of snow and ice are burned bare by the heat of the soul's impact. Thus did the blazing soul of one Joseph Stantur, alight with his faith, impact the soil of Nirn. Divine light intermingled with the light of Stantur's soul, weaving a body as if out of thin air. When the convalescence of light completed its work, it faded, leaving the collapsed body of the Witch Hunter amidst the snow. The light of Stantur's souls rushed into the body before it, leaving the area around it to be lit only with the fires produced by its descent.

Still lay the body wreathed in fire, its soul returned yet its strength remained diminished.

Somewhere, thousands of fanged mouths curved upward in glee. Its gambit worked, something took the bait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Somewhere in the Mountains North of Cyrodiil**

The sharp winds of the north cut right through him. They always had, seemingly passing right through the iron and wool he'd donned to keep ice and steel alike from his flesh. A small part of him wished that like all other lands before, Skyrim would hold no haven for his family, that they would have to look to more southern realms to find a home. Reason indicated otherwise, as the Nords were well and embroiled in a civil war partly started by the wretched Thalmor and were well known for their hatred of them. Still, it was hard to find hope or joy when you were freezing your legs off.

Currently Renccer was hiking along the path north, he'd traveled among company for a while but few were looking to get into Skyrim right now with the war. There had been some merchants thinking about headed up there to sell arms and armor but they had chickened out once they reached Bruma and seen how riled the Nords were there. Some nonsense about not having enough rations to make the trip. Renccer had no such luxury however, and had endured the worsening weather and rough terrain for the sake of his family. Let no one say he never did anything for them.

As it was, the only thing keeping him from being hopelessly lost among the towering mountains separating Skyrim from Cyrodiil was the distressingly thin path he trudged along. Path was generous, it was a goat trail when clear and a slightly depressed section of snow when covered. Every footstep seemed a titanic effort, and he could barely see enough ahead of himself to keep on what he thought was the path. The wind roared and snow pelted his whole body. It seemed like every one of his senses was under assault, barring taste. How did the Nords live like this?

Something whizzed by Renccer's head. He snapped around, trying to see what it was and where it came from. It definitely hadn't been snow, too heavy and loud enough to hear as it just passed his ear. He had been shot at enough times to know what an arrow passing by your head sounded like.

Seeing nothing in the torrential snowfall, Renccer dove into the snow. Hopefully the ambushers wouldn't be able to see into snow as well as through it. As he stilled within the several feet of snow on the ground, the distinct sounds of battle reached Renccer's ears. The blizzard must be passing, as he certainly hadn't heard anything before hand. His curiosity got the better of his fear and he straightened himself to see his surroundings. The snowfall had ended, and hidden within it seemed to be a battle that Renccer had somehow stumbled straight into without realizing. Figures clad in leather with blue markings clashed desperately with what were clearly soldiers of the Imperial legion. Even with his cursory glancing, it was clear that the blue-cloaked figures were not faring well. There were making a good showing of themselves though, and many were fighting with the intention to die before surrendering.

"_**Fus!"**_

Snow went flying as a shout like thunder ripped across the battlefield. Men of the legion staggered and faltered as one noble-looking Nord cast magic Renccer had never seen before to keep the Imperials from piling onto him. It only gave him a brief respite though, as many more ran to take their places. The Nord was buried under a red and tan pile of men.

"Throw down your weapons! Your master is beaten, and so are all of you!" a hoarse-sounding man hollered.

Some threw down their weapons, other tried to run. Most simply kept fighting, until they were killed or beaten into submission. It was as the last blue-clad men were subdued that two thoughts occurred to Renccer. One was that he was in the middle of a battlefield were the Legion men were either killing or capturing anyone without their uniform. The other was that the cold was awful sharp on just the back of his neck.

"Up you cur!" a woman's voice like stone demanded from behind him. "Don't even think about running, you'll just die tired."

Renccer slowly rose and brought his hands up to his head. "Stay your steel, I'm not with these-"

A sharp crack sounded as the Imperial officer behind him brought her pommel crashing into the back of Renccer's head. He fell wordlessly, and knew nothing else.

**The Back of a Wooden Wagon**

A dull throbbing sensation pierced the malaise of Renccer's unconsciousness. His was not a peaceful and rested awakening, but regardless he opened his eyes to behold the back of an wagon driver in Legion livery. In the corner of his eye he saw a Nord with long blonde hair in a suit of leather armor bearing blue as its identifying colour. He seemed to notice Renccer's stirring.

"Hey, you're finally awake. Walked straight into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there."

Renccer's head swam as he struggled to look to his right.

"Damn you Stormcloaks, Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy, but if they hadn't been looking for you, I would've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The thief across to Renccer's right looks at him. "You there, you and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

The blonde cuts in, "We are all brother and sisters in binds now, thief."

"Shut up back there!" demands the wagon-driver.

For the moment the others in the wagon were silent as bidden, and Renccer was able to think. He was gagged, his hands bound. His head ached, but he remembered what had happened. The Imperials must've, somewhat ironically, used the harsh conditions the ambush the Nords around him. He had been caught in the middle, and was knocked unconscious when an officer assumed his allegiance. Renccer looked at the scenery slowly passing them by, snow and stone turned to greenery as a cold wind blew at their backs down towards the warmer lands before them. Renccer was a little surprised, he had thought the whole province would be nothing but desolate snow and ice. At least he was warmer now, maybe after this mess was sorted out, Skyrim wouldn't be such a bad place for his family after all.

"What's wrong with him, huh?"

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

Renccer's eyes widened as he recognized the man similarly bound and gagged to his right. The infamous rebel leader that had defied the Empire and currently led half of the northernmost province in open rebellion! Renccer had always quietly admired the man whenever he came up. Most dismissed him as a rabble-rouser, but Renccer had respected that he wouldn't let anyone tread over him or his people. Renccer hadn't forgotten Talos, nor had he forgotten what the Thalmor had done to his family back in Daggerfall.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion, but if they've captured you… Oh Gods, where are they taking us?!"

Renccer broke into a cold sweat as the implications of the thief's words hit. He may not be a rebel, but neither was the thief, and both of them were sharing their wagon with the Empire's public enemy number one. Not encouraging.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits..."

"No! This can't be happening, this isn't happening!"

The thief begins to panic as Renccer is hit with the memories of his family, his mother and father grimly facing their poverty, the smile of his sister. They would be lost to him forever, and he would be killed like a rabid dog in this strange land having barely stepped into it. The blonde Nord spoke up, distracting Renccer from his despair,

"Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?"

"Why do you care?" the thief snapped.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Rorikstead. I'm- I'm from Rorikstead."

Renccer found himself feeling hollow. It was all pointless, feeling anything, thinking anything, his whole journey. And for what? The Imperials didn't care who was caught up in their cow-towing to the Thalmor slime, that's all.

"General Tulius, sir, the headsman is waiting!"

"Good, let's get this over with." Renccer recognized that voice. It was the one that had demanded surrender earlier, in the pass. The thief began invoking the Gods, begging for deliverance. Renccer had stopped begging them a long time ago, the last time he had gone hungry, if he remembered correctly. They didn't save anyone who couldn't save themselves to begin with.

Renccer's companions lapsed into a lasting silence as they came upon the town. The walls were high for such a small border town, perhaps Skyrim was more dangerous than most other places. Northern greenery and dirt turned to stone roads and the gate loomed large. What might have reassured him once now only seemed like a coffin-lid closing over his head.

Blonde spoke up again, "Look at him, General Tulius the Military Governor. And it looked like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this!"

The wagon passed through the town, and its inhabitants came from their homes to witness their procession. Like some kind of sick entertainment. At least one father had the sense to put his son away back into their house. The death of men, no matter who, was not something a young child should see.

"This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe…"

The town was not so big that it took long to get to the center. Resentment burned like fire deep in Renccer's wagons began to stop before a fort in the middle of the town, Helgen.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!"

The thief finally looks up, shaken from his despair, meekly asking, "Why are we stopping?"

"Why do you think? End of the line." Blonde's grim statement was punctuated with the cart's halt. "Let's go, shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

"No, wait, we're not rebels!"

"Face your death with some courage, thief."

"You've got to tell them, we weren't with you, this is a mistake!"

The Imperials, ever organized, began sorting the prisoners, lining them up after calling their name and hometown. They went through each wagon before theirs, though there weren't many Stormcloaks left living from the ambush to execute. Blonde seemed to share Renccer's disdain for the casual manner in which the Imperials called men to their deaths.

"Empire loves their damned lists," he muttered as he passed Renccer shuffling out of the wagon.

A Nord in Imperial uniform stood holding an aforementioned damned list. "Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm," he called. The gagged Nord walked with head held high, not deigning to look upon the men who would kill him.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!" Blonde called as the noble strode towards the headsman.

"Ralof of Riverwood," the list-bearer announced. Renccer and Ralof shared a look that communicated more than any words passed between them could say. In either of their eyes burned defiance and pride, a hate for those passing judgement on them. He walked away quietly, with none to honor him as he had the Jarl before him.

"Lokhir of Rorikstead," the lister called next.

"No, I'm not a rebel, you can't do this!" He was too tense, it was obvious what he'd try to do.

"Archers!" a familiar voice cried. Before he could even get more than a couple yards away he was riddled with arrow shafts. A soldier went over with a knife drawn. Lokhir's neck was cut just as well with a knife as an axe. "Anyone else feel like running?"

The first of them to die, though Renccer felt barely any pity for him. He had lived as a coward, and had died as one. Only the fact that the Empire would kill him just the same, as though he were some common scum brought any sympathetic anger to Renccer.

"Wait, you there. Step forward"

Surprised at being treated any differently, you plod up to the officer that had bashed in your head and the lister. Renccer is sure the anger is in his eyes as they both consider him.

"Who are you?"

They both take a moment to consider Renccer, a Breton of somewhat larger build than most. He knew many of his people tended to consider less physical work their vocation, but his father had taught him the ways of the warrior and who was he to spite his father's gift? Renccer wondered if the beating he'd been given had affected his features, he'd been told his face was like carved marble once. Perhaps it had been his mother, but what did that matter? His black air on top of beaten face masked his noble features, but a breton was a breton, no matter how bruised.

A soldier ran up to the officer, handing her one of Renccer's effects, "We found this among his things, ma'am. Identifies him as one Renccer Nermence. We've nothing to confirm it with, so it could be a false name."

The list-bearer looked up, "Captain, he's not on the list, what should we do?"

The Captain looked into Renccer's eyes. No doubt she saw the defiance there, the resentment he had towards he for her treatment of him. Perhaps she simply hated him, perhaps she saw some threat. Either way, "Forget the list, he goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain. I'm sorry, we'll make sure your remains are sent to Highrock. Follow the Captain, prisoner," Such a platitude did little to abate the hatred now cooking in Renccer. What was once a low burning resentment flared into an inferno consuming him whole. His hate may have burned high, but it went out just as quick, else he'd die just as stupidly as Lokhir. Let his revenge be to die with dignity, hopefully he'd haunt these butchers for the rest of their lives.

General Tulius was giving some gloating, one-sided rant to Ulfric. He damned him for his defiance, for his actions leading to people's deaths. He ended with declaring his victory, and the restored peace of Skyrim. Those villagers in attendance cheered at this, must not have been many sympathizers for the Stormcloaks here. The whole thing was a little ridiculous, considering how much shorter the general was than Ulfric. It seemed to be undignified and vain to celebrate the death of a man at your mercy.

A roar, far off into the mountains sounded. It pierced the air like thunder, filling the valleys and chilling the bones of all who heard.

A soldier choked out, "What was that?"

Tulius was unafraid, "It's nothing, carry on."

"Yes, General Tulius," The officer crisply saluted with a fist to her chest. "Give them their last rites."

A priest standing nearby nodded, "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessing of the Eight Divines upon you-"

"For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with," a red-haired Stormcloak strode forward. Renccer was struck by his bravery, he walked to the headsman's block not like a man about to die, but like he was going to a fight. Renccer's heart soared at his boldness.

"Come on, I haven't got all morning!" the Nord bellowed. The captain forced him down, holding him in place with a steel boot. "My ancestors are smiling at me Imperials, can you say the same?!"

Air parted as the axe whooshed down to meet the brave man's neck. With a disgusting meaty thunk, flesh and bone were separated. Bold or no, headless he certainly was now.

"As fearless in death, as he was in life," Ralof intoned. He seemed to have as much respect for the man as Renccer did. Perhaps he was lucky enough to have known him personally. The captain gracelessly pushed the body aside with her foot, as the crowd cheered the Stormcloak's death.

"Next! The Breton in the rags!" the captain called out. Renccer jolted, he was to be executed, so early? He felt a spike of fear, but forced it down. If that man could so boldly hace his death, Renccer would honor him by doing the same. Another roar split the sky, louder and closer. Whatever beast could make such a noise was surely fierce, he had never heard anything that sounded like that.

"There it is again, did you hear that?" The sympathetic list-holder said to the captain.

"I said, next prisoner," she replied. Renccer was not sure what he had done to earn this woman's ire so. Perhaps the source of the roar would kill her after. That was a pleasant thought.

"To the block prisoner, nice and easy." The sympathy of the Imperial was becoming annoying. What did it matter if he did not wish you dead, if he wasn't even going to try to prevent it? He knew it was wrong, but simply didn't care enough to do anything about it, just like every one of the Thalmor's bootlicking toadies that had run his family out of Daggerfall.

He trod forward to the block, standing in the same spot he had seen another man killed. He saw the face of the Nord staring lifelessly up. Renccer's stomach turned, he wanted to vomit. Then a steel boot planted itself in the small of his back, forcing his face into the basket with the severed head. Before he could process this, and he would surely vomit if he had the time, he was hauled back so that his neck properly aligned with the executioner's block. His head tilted to face the headsman and the stone tower behind him. It was strange, Renccer felt a sort of peace now, the revulsion and fear that once overtook him were gone now. It was as if the Divines had stripped him of his ill feelings as some final act of mercy.

Another roar, even closer this time. Renccer's eyes widened as he spotten, seemingly before all others, a monstrous creature swooping low towards the tower. The roar had finally shaken the Imperials, demands for information and the yellings of sentries echoed in response. All were confused until it landed on the top of the stone tower. It looked like death had taken some sort of comically terrifying form, wings that spanned the length of a whole ship, a head like something of the Daedra. It opened its maw, and split open the sky! Rocks fell from above and the heavens turned red with doom. The headsman fell, shaken from his stance by the monster's landing. Someone cried, "Dragon!". One of the falling rocks impacted the fallen headsman, reducing his body to a pulpy mass of blood and flesh. The dragon's maw split open again, unleashing fire which wreathed the sentries around Helgen in unquenchable death. The Imperials scatter, looking for cover.

"Hey, let's go. Quickly, the Gods won't give us another chance!" Ralof was to your right, he had stayed to help you up. With his help to stumble into a tower to your right. He practically hauls you into the doorway, where the other Stormcloaks and Ulfric had gone to. The stone tower was protection enough from falling stones and fire, but it would help little in the long run.

Ralof follows you in shortly, and two other Stormcloaks slam the door shut and bar it. Outside you can hear Imperials screaming as they're cooked alive, as well as the roaring of the dragon.

"By the Gods, is that a dragon? Like in the legends?" Ralof pants as he catches his breath.

"Legends don't burn down villages," Sounded a resounding baritone. Renccer looked to see who had spoken, and who but the Jarl of Windhelm. His was a voice that demanded attention, and commanded authority. It was exactly what Renccer has imagined he might sound like without his gag.

Reminded of his own impairment, Renccer ripped off his own gag, taking the opportunity to say, "It seems they do today, Jarl Ulfric. Now how are we getting out of this hell-hole?"

While Ralof seemed abashed at your candidness, Ulfric seemed to smile. "Ralof, take your friend and check the upstairs. Perhaps there is a way out there." Ralof snapped to obey, and you found yourself following him without question. It just seemed like the natural thing to do.

At the top of the stairs, another Stormcloak had begun shifting stone rubble. It blocked a hole in the side of the tower that overlooked the inn. "Hurry, if we just move a few of these-"

He was cut off by the dragon's jaws snapping through the stone before him with ease. The beast caught hold of his body, but the force of the snap shore off his legs. The upper-half of the Stormcloak was pulled screaming into the sky, leaving the rest of him draining upon the floor.

Both Renccer and Ralof were taken aback by this sudden assault. Ralof recovers first, pulling Renccer to the now completely opened hole bodily, "Jump through the roof! I'll be right after you, so go!"

Had Renccer had time to pause, he might have balked at a jump from a three-story stone tower into a one-story burning inn. He did not pause however, running into a leap that bridged the gap and took him tumbling into the second floor of the inn. The fires Renccer had leapt through blazed higher, overtaking the roof.

"Keep going! We'll find you later, stay alive!" Ralof shouted down at him. Renccer paused and shook his head. He had to move, before the inn collapsed around him. He thundered down the stairs and into the open, and straight into another horrific scene. A boy was bent over the still-burning body of his father while an old man and the list-bearer coaxed him away. The dragon landed on a roof behind the boy, seemingly content for a moment to peer at the quaint suffering of mortals. The boy ran, leaving his dying father as the monster unleashed a gout of flame onto the father. The old man bade some blessing to the lister, calling him "Hadvar".

"Still alive prisoner? Then stay close to me if you want to stay that way!"

Renccer's anger spiked at Hadvar's order, jumping to the threat thinly veiled within. Hadvar was already moving to the only clear path forward, so Renccer followed. Ducking into an alley alongside the inner fort's wall, they were well concealed from the dragon's vision. Just as well, it lands onto the fort's wall just ahead of them. Had they taken a different path, it'd be them the dragon was cooking now.

It takes off, and Hadvar signals them to move forward. They sprint through burning houses and skirt roads and clearings that've been turned into killing fields. Helgen was a charnel house that's been set ablaze, all that mattered to anyone still alive inside was getting out.

After charging through the whole of the town, only stopping to avoid the dragon's gaze, Hadvar and Renccer come into the keep. General Tulius shouts some orders from nearby, but they are indistinct over the roars and impacts of brimstone. Hadvar seems to hear it though, and changes course towards the keep. It's not a bad idea to try to escape underground, it would be much less suicidal than trying to get away in the open.

Renccer follows Hadvar, but thinks. If he goes with Hadvar now, where will he end up? This is the same person willing to stand aside as you were wrongfully put to the sword without saying anything at all in your defense. It seems likely a cage will be where you end up, right back to the chopping block. Renccer begins to scan the keep for other ways out, when Ralof and the rest of the Stormcloaks appear. While the dragon occupied itself with the Legion, they had cut straight across into the keep. Perhaps Renccer should not have jumped after all.

Ralof smiles as he sees you, but quickly assumes a defensive stance as he recognizes Hadvar, "We're escaping, Hadvar. There's no stopping us this time!"

"Ralof, you damn traitor, out of my way!" Hadvar shouts as the Stormcloaks pass. "Keep close, prisoner and we'll get out of this mess alive." But Renccer had already left to join the Stormcloaks.

Hadvar turned and saw this. His vision went red as he watched another man join with the turncoats and rebels tearing his homeland apart.

Renccer heard Hadvar before he struck, and that had saved his life. Not bothering to disguise his steps, Hadvar had charged Renccer from behind, sword raised. Renccer turned as heard him coming, however his hands were still bound. Dodging the first swipe of Hadvar's sword, Renccer responds with a swift kick, sending Hadvar onto the ground.

Rather than staying to fight in the open, Renccer sprints the keep, where Ralof his holding open the doors for him. Renccer barrels in and Ralof slams shut the great oak door, barring it shortly after. Pounding can be heard from the other side as Hadvar futilely beats at the reinforced wood doors meant to keep an army out. The Stormcloaks were gathered in the main chamber of the keep, though the doors on either side of them were still closed, likely locked.


End file.
